


Like Roses and Wine

by Schwoozie



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Canonical Character Death, Charles is lonely, Erik is broken, First Kiss, Football | Soccer, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Raven should really start charging for this, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-04
Updated: 2012-11-04
Packaged: 2017-11-17 17:23:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/554064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Schwoozie/pseuds/Schwoozie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles is not what you would call a “sports person” - but the promise of free kisses after the game, especially with one Erik Lensherr playing midfield, is a temptation Charles can't resist.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Roses and Wine

**Author's Note:**

> Underage on a technicality - they are both seniors in college, but Charles is 17.
> 
> Inspired by a sign on my actual college campus, promising free kisses from senior players after the game. Instead of going for kisses, I wrote this. I hope you appreciate my priorities.

Charles was not what you would call a “sports person.” He wasn't out of shape, by any means, but he still felt uncomfortable changing in front of anyone he hadn't known for at least five years. During midterms, bump that up to a decade.

He had followed a few sports in his childhood to please his mother, because Kurt was a huge sports fan and Sharon Xavier a great proponent of “bonding time.” But when the maid found Playboy under his bed (opened to the compromising shot of Kurt's favorite footballer in nothing but his jock strap), the weekly torture ceased, and Charles could dedicate his time to more important things – namely, his lack of a social life, and his hand. 

There was of course schoolwork, and without things to worry about like parties and talking to human beings, he became very good at it. So good, in fact, he was accepted at Harvard when he was 14 years old. It didn't help his social life, but who needed friends when you had a multi-million dollar laboratory at your finger-tips.

Considering his life thus far, Charles found his current state – 17 years old, a senior in college, and freezing his ass off at the homecoming game – more than a little alarming. Not quite so alarming, of course, as the blonde next to him, defying her southern Kentucky origins by wearing nothing but a spangled bra and panties and painted a startling shade of blue. 

“You know it's considered odd to root for the opposing team,” Charles said through his chattering teeth, at the beginning of halftime.

Raven, his roommate and pseudo-therapist since sophomore year, rolled her eyes. “Red clashes with my hair, ok?” She pointed to her fire-engine tresses, and he had to admit she had a point. “Besides, it's not like they have a chance in winning. It's Fury's first season as head coach and they haven't lost yet. Besides, our boys look mighty fine, don't they?”

“Whatever you say,” Charles grumbled, glad his face was already crimson from the cold. Raven just shook her head.

“Charles, I know the real reason why you came tonight, and it wasn't school spirit.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he insisted, alarmed.

“Yes you fucking do.”

“Please don't –“

“Charles, you aren't even legal yet, don't fucking tell me to watch my language.” She sighed and put an arm around his shoulder. “Charles, I've been asking you to these games for four years. You don't think I'd be suspicious when you're suddenly so gung-ho to go?”

“Recall that my step-father went to Yale; maybe I find satisfaction in seeing his alma mater trounced.”

“Or maybe you saw the internet flyer that promised free kisses from the players after the game.”

“Raven!” Charles gasped, shushing her quickly. She always seemed to forget that, although she insisted everyone and his girlfriend knew, he wasn't technically “out” yet, and he'd prefer to keep it that way. He'd had some perverse notion since he discovered his sexuality that the One would know without having to be told; and besides, he might as well avoid the heckling. It's not like being out would get him laid any faster. 

“Charles, you left it open on your computer. I checked your web history and you'd been to that page six times in an hour before calling me.”

“You looked at my web history –“

“I do it every time you're acting bizarre, don't worry, I like weirder porn than you do anyway.” She ignored his sputtering and plowed on. “Listen, I've known you for four years, right? Ever since we were neighbors in freshman year and you asked me what a bong was.”

“I was fourteen, you can't expect –“

“Will you shut up for a minute? Believe it or not I'm trying to help you.” Charles pouted. Raven took his hands from where they were shoved into his armpits between her own. Charles knew this part. It was time for a Serious Talk. He wasn't sure how well it would work when she was in a spangled bra.

“Charles. You know that I know how hard these years have been for you, right? I love you and I'll always be there for you, but you need something more. I know you know that, and I know you want it, but you have this idiotic idea in your head that you aren't good enough. You are fucking better than ALL of them, especially that stupid Lensherr.”

“I never said –“

“Charles, you've been making doe eyes at him for three years. I was in that ENGN300 class with you, remember? You think I didn't notice that you skipped the lectures but always came to section – and yes, I know, all of us did that, but you're the one who got to a 9am class ten minutes early just to stare at the TA. Charles, you _hated_ that class. With a _passion_. But you started your essays a week in advance so he'd think you were smart.”

“It didn't work, either, I was five points from failing,” Charles muttered.

“That's not the point, Charles! You don't even know if he's gay!”

“I have a feeling –“

“And the last time you had a “feeling” I had to pick you up from the emergency room.”

“In my defense, I was sloshed at the time.”

“Are you trying to make this conversation difficult?”

“No, I –“ Charles huffed angrily and scrubbed his hands across his face. “I get it, ok. He's tall and brilliant and gorgeous and the best midfielder we've had in fifty years, and I'm short and pale and the closest thing I've had to a relationship is with a petri dish, but – I can't help it, ok? You don't know him.”

“And you do?” 

“Yes.”

“Have you ever had a conversation with him that lasted more than five minutes?”

“That doesn't matter. I _know_ him, Raven.” 

She sighed in exasperation, but it didn't lack for fondness. “You're hopeless, Charles, you know that?”

“That's what I'm here for,” he muttered.

It was true – he didn't know the name of his pet or his favorite band or how he took his coffee – but Charles knew that if they could ever _talk_ , really _talk_ , and not about his almost-failing grade or passing remarks in the halls or nodding at each other in the library... Charles wasn't good with people but he was good _about_ them, and something told Charles that Erik was just as lonely as he was.

“I never told you...” Charles began slowly, and instantly regretted it when Raven's eyes snapped to his face like a hawk.

“What didn't you tell me, Charles.”

“I... I sort of had an encounter with him.”

Raven raised her eyebrows. “An encounter or an _encounter_?”

“It was suitable for children under 13, ok!” 

“Ok, sheesh, sorry, continue.”

“Well, he... it was late and I was starting home after a few hours in the lab. And I was walking down the street when I see someone standing outside Lowell. And I know it's him – stop looking at me like that, yes, I knew it was him because I'm so obsessed I can track him in the dark – and normally I'd keep going because it's 3 in the morning and I don't want to know what normal people do outside at 3 in the morning... but something's wrong, I know it. So I go closer and he's crying.”

“Charles –“

“What was I supposed to do, ok, what if he were hurt? So I go up and ask if he needs help. And you remember his eyes, right, how he always looks like he's waiting for an excuse to shank someone? The way he looked at me, Raven, he... he looked like his world was broken. Like he'd fallen down a pit and would never get out. I could tell he was drunk. I asked him if he was ok, and he said he lost his keys and his phone and he was locked out. And then he... he started crying. It was like I wasn't there, he started crying and sort of... crumpled to the ground and– it was terrifying, that someone like him, someone so sure of himself and composed and strong and _big_ , not just physically but the way he could enter a room and everything goes quiet because it's _him_... that he could get so little. He looked like a little kid, so... I knew you were away for the weekend visiting your parents, so I asked if he wanted somewhere to stay for the night.”

“You could have let him borrow your phone, Charles.”

“I couldn't leave him like that,” Charles said fiercely. It frightened Raven a little, the intensity of it. “I don't know his friends, I don't know what they would say or if they'd know what to do or if they'd just drop him in the shower and let him sleep it off... I couldn't leave him. You get that, right? He... when I was 13 and Cain would kick my ass I'd get slammed and that's the face I'd see in the mirror. I can't leave him.”

“Ok, ok Charles. I get it, I'm sorry.”

“Ok.” Charles took a deep breath and continued. “Somehow I got him to our place, and I mean, of course I was worried I'd have to get him into bed and how awkward would THAT have become... but he just sat on the rug in front of the couch and asked if I had any water. So I brought him that liter bottle we have and he downed _all_ of it. In one gulp. It, um. It was impressive.”

“So awkward boner time, right?”

“Basically,” Charles said miserably. “I was sort of hovering in the corner thinking of dead kittens and trying to remember the signs of alcohol poisoning, when he... well.” 

He told Raven how Erik had finished the bottle and seen him standing there... and his whole face changed. He seemed to realize for the first time exactly where he was and who he was with, and a rueful grin inched onto his face. As soon as he realized it was there, however, it vanished.

“Um. I can get you more water if you want–“

“No, no, that's fine,” Erik said, and moved as if to get up. “I should go now, I shouldn't have imposed–“

“No!” Charles shouted. Not that he was desperate to keep him there. Not at all. But the way Erik had nearly pitched forward and broken his head on the tile floor told Charles he shouldn’t be going _anywhere_ any time soon.

Erik groaned and leaned against the couch, lolling his head back and rubbing his eyes. And Charles was suddenly terrified. Because there was the mile-long stretch of throat he had rubbed himself off thinking about, the hands so large his not-unimpressively-sized cock could almost disappear inside, the long, long legs and torso that Charles would kiss every inch of, would cherish, licking and teasing until Erik was writhing and moaning his name and leaking pre-cum into Charles's hair, and when Charles took pity and wrapped his lips around Erik's monstrous cock (he knew it was, by the way he walked and the swell of it in his jeans) – Charles had never sucked cock before, but he knew he would like it, and even if he didn't he would like sucking Erik, would like to feel him coming undone and plowing against the back of his throat because Charles wouldn't hesitate to give him everything that was inside him from 17 years on earth, wouldn't care how ridiculous he looked or how sick it made him as long as Erik would tear at his hair and shoot spunk down his throat and pull him up just to taste his own cum on Charles's lips... and then Charles wouldn't even let him return the favor, because having him there would be enough, and even with a tortured weight between his legs nothing was better than feeling Erik's arms tighten around him and kisses on his temple and words he could never say to anyone else – not even to Raven, not even to himself – spilling from his lips and being replied to in kind, and they'd drift off to sleep in each other's arms and every night is the same for a lifetime.

These thought slipped through Charles like a river of acid, the ache in his chest so acute he nearly fled the room. But then Erik's hands dropped to lie limp at his sides, and Charles saw all the new lines on his handsome face – and in a perverse way they only made him more beautiful. But it gave Charles the courage to walk forward and sit in front of the ottoman facing the couch, to grip his knees to his chest and wait for Erik to speak.

“You're the one from my ENGN300 class, right? The kid who always got there early?”

Charles's heart fell at the word “kid,” but he pushed the feeling down. “Yeah.” He forced himself to chuckle. “Thanks for passing me, by the way. Those essays must have been a misery to read.”

“They were,” Erik said bluntly, then chuckled. “You weren't in the right class, but I could tell you were intelligent. You did the readings and checked your fucking spelling, which is more than most of the class did. You didn’t deserve to fail.”

“You failed Sebastian, though,” Charles said carefully, “and he always scored above me on exams.”

“I failed Sebastian because he was a dick. And he didn't write half of the essays, and the half he did he wrote while stoned.” He pointed a finger at Charles, who barely stopped himself from gulping. “Don't you fucking question my decision, Xavier, or think I should have failed you. There's something in life that you're a motherfucking genius at, and I wasn't going to destroy your sanity over a mistake in course selection. What are you a genius at?”

“Genetics,” Charles blurted, because what else could he say to that?

“Ahh,” Erik said, smirking in a way that made Charles's stomach do flip-flops, “and you needed an engineering course for your major, right?”

“Yeah,” Charles said sheepishly. “Sorry it was yours.”

“You should be, I ran out of red pens because of you,” Erik said, with a smile that revealed more teeth than a human mouth is supposed to hold and if Charles hadn't been in love with him already it would have started then.

Slowly, Erik's smile faded. He pulled something out of his pocket and began fiddling with it. He seemed to make a decision and tossed the object to Charles, who caught it with a fumble. 

He hesitated, but at an impatient gesture from Erik he bent his head and studied it.

It was an oblong object about the length of his index finger, and made from some kind of pewter. It was very old, but he could make out the remains of carvings along its length; many were decorative, but some looked like hebrew letters.

“You're Jewish?” he asked in surprise, then realized what he'd said and colored. “I mean, there's no problem if you are. Obviously. I just never knew, you, uh, you don't –“

“Seem the type?” Erik offered. His voice was rough, but he didn't look offended – just sad. “I haven't practiced in a long time. Not since I left Germany.”

“You were born in Germany?” Charles said, surprised. Although, it made sense – there was always something _other_ about Erik, as if he walked a step slower than the people around him.

“Yes. I left when I was ten, to live with my aunt. My family couldn't afford to keep me, but M– Mamma still sent money every month, so I wouldn't be a burden.” Erik's brow was hard and his jaw clenched; Charles desperately tried to steer them away from the subject. 

“What is this, then?” he asked, turning the object over in his hands.

“It's a _mezuzah_ ,” Erik said. “The Torah commands us to have a piece of the _shema_ , a prayer, on the doorpost of the home. My aunt gave it to me when I came to college; she was moving and wanted a nicer one. This she had brought from Germany. It's been in my family for four generations.”

“Wow,” Charles said, running his fingers across the etchings. He suddenly felt unworthy to be touching such an important part of Erik's life, and handed it back. He ignored the lightning as their fingers brushed. 

“Why isn't it on your door then? Does the college not allow it?”

“They do. But I've never felt the need for it. It's been in my sock drawer.”

“Why take it out now?”

Charles instantly knew he'd said the wrong thing; Erik's face shuttered, and his knuckles turned white around the figure. Charles was about to back-track when Erik spoke.

“My mother died,” he said. There was no emotion in his voice. “Some kid was high and playing with matches. Everyone got out, but Mamma thought she heard a baby inside. So she went back.”

“I'm so sorry, Erik,” Charles said, feeling woefully unprepared for this. He had often wondered how he would feel with the news of Sharon's death; he assumed there would be some sadness, perhaps annoyance at being left with her convoluted will to trudge through – but never had he considered the grief oozing from the man across from him.

“It happened a month ago, but,” he choked back a bitter laugh, “Aunt Ruth didn't want me to worry during exams.

“Erik,” Charles murmured, wanting to reach out to him, but Erik spoke again, as if some higher voice compelled him. 

“Papa died before I came here; it was the reason Mamma couldn't keep me. She was sick for a long time after he left, and she couldn't – she lost every job she got because there were some mornings she couldn't get out of bed to give me breakfast, and I'd come home and see her in the kitchen talking as if he were there or dancing with a phantom in her arms and she got so frightened when she realized what she was doing, she'd take me in her arms and cry for hours–“ Tears were running down Erik's face now; Charles should have felt embarrassed, but it was impossible to look away. “For a long time I hated her; for abandoning me, first when Papa died and then again when she sent me away. I didn't talk to her for years; she called every week but I wouldn't speak to her. It's only when I was accepted here, when she used all the money she had in the world to come and see me–“ Erik choked and for a few moments could not speak. Wordlessly, Charles offered him the tissue box from the end table, but he waved it away. “I thought my cousin was coming home from USC. I didn't know we were there for her. And when I saw her I started crying right in the middle of JF fucking K, the stewardess took us to a private room because I couldn't stop and she was just holding me and rocking me, singing a lullaby I'd forgotten the words to – and now I can't stop hearing it, everywhere I hear her singing in that disgusting fucking terminal–” 

Charles couldn't stop himself; he shuffled across the rug to sit at Erik's side, and took his hand in his own. It was just as warm and strong as he imagined, and clung to him with bone-crunching ferocity.

Other than the manic grip of his hand, Erik did not even acknowledge that Charles had moved; he continued speaking into the air. “I didn't understand,” he said thickly, and Charles had to lean close to make out his words, “I didn't understand why she loved him more than me. Why she clung to a ghost when she couldn't even feed her own son. I hated her for so long, while she loved me every day, loved me more than heaven and Earth and money and comfort and heat in the winter and I can't stop thinking that, that she went back into that building because she thought _I_ was the baby, because she saw me only once in all those years and I was still her _pitzl bubelah_ , still, after so long–“

The pitch of his voice was reaching dangerous heights so Charles gathered his spirit and reached out and took Erik's chin in his hand, wrenching him around to meet his eyes. Erik stared at him, shocked, his eyes lined with red and a dribble of snot sliding from his nose. Charles had never wanted him more than at that moment.

“Listen to me,” Charles said, pressing against Erik's side, telling himself it would comfort him, “You are a good man, Erik. Your mother wouldn't have loved you if you weren't, I–“ and Charles stumbled, “I wouldn't be here if you weren't. Are you listening to me? _It wasn't your fault_. Your mother was sick, and you were a little boy who felt lost and hurt, _but she still loved you_. She loved you so much that she would forgive you anything and that's... that's a gift from God,” Charles choked; Charles, who had never believed in God, whose mother responded to the confession of his sexuality by beating him with a stool until he passed out, until he got a concussion so bad he couldn't walk straight for weeks, who moved his bedroom to the old servants' quarters so he would be as far from her as possible. Charles knew nothing like Erik's mother, but he could not stop talking. “It's a gift, Erik, it's a motherfucking gift, and she wouldn't want you to waste it by blaming yourself. Grieve for her and feel like shit because it's a shit world and a shit life and maybe it's not getting any better, but... don't waste it. There's so much more to you than that.” 

He stayed there, locked in Erik's gaze for far too long, slowly realizing how ridiculous he was, sitting here with a man he'd never really spoken to before, holding him with the hand that he used to jerk off to fantasies of him in his bed – he jerked himself away, horrified. Cheeks on fire, he gathered his knees to his chest again and stared at the far wall, chest burning in the effort of keeping his own tears at bay. Erik wouldn't thank him for crying too.

He waited for the apologies to start: how Erik felt uncomfortable, how Charles really shouldn't say stuff like that to another guy, how he should get going and it's late and now Charles wouldn't be able to stop him – even though if he left Charles knew that this would be the night he cut his wrists, because he couldn't live like this anymore, not after feeling Erik's face in his hand, after being so close he could smell the whiskey on his breath and the aftershave he used and the stale musk of a day's sweat that he wanted to bottle and spread across his sheets and sweaters and walls until he couldn't tell his own smell from Erik's anymore and it would be almost like having him in his life, almost like not being alone, and Charles was so, so sick to _death_ of being alone–

He tensed in anticipation as Erik shifted – and lay his head on Charles's shoulder.

Charles froze, too shocked to breathe, as Erik curled into him, bringing his knees against Charles's thighs and again clasping his hand. Charles did cry then, because they fit like roses and wine – and Erik's shuttered breath fluttered against Charles's open collar as his breathing matched Charles's own, deep and even, and there was nothing in the world but the two of them.

Some time later – a very long time, for Charles had gotten control of himself and closed his eyes, concentrating on the warmth from every inch their bodies touched, memorizing the exact sound of air moving through Erik's lungs – when the other man stirred enough to ask, “You don't mind if I sleep here tonight, do you? I don't want to go home.”

“No. No, of course. Please stay.”

“Thank you,” Erik said, and slowly started to rise. Charles bit his lip to keep himself from doing something stupid like begging him to stay _here_ , or following him up so he could have a moment more of his heat – but then Erik was gone, and walking away.

He paused and half-turned back. “Bathroom?” he asked, without meeting Charles's eyes.

“First door on the left,” Charles rasped. Erik nodded and was gone.

Charles sat in a stupor for many minutes before he heard the shower sputter on, and he sprang to his feet, feeling thrice the fool. He ran to the closet for linens – and then, cursing himself, went to his own room, grabbed the blanket from the foot of his bed, the one he had owned since childhood – he took it and a pillow and the largest pajamas he owned and left it all on the couch. He fled to his room before Erik could come out, and shut the door along with the lights. He stood with an ear against the wood, listening to Erik moving around – a few sighs that sounded like sobs, and Charles's heart shattered anew with each one – and then one heart-rending moment, when he seemed to hover outside Charles's door, and Charles could have fainted for how long he held his breath – but then the footsteps receded and the light beneath the door vanished.

Charles couldn't even bring himself to jerk off that night. He bore the hard-on like a penance, and didn't fall asleep until dawn.

* * *

“And when I came out,” Charles said, still not looking at Raven; he hadn't looked at her for a long time. “When I came out he was gone. He folded the sheets and left a dollar for the water. He hadn't even worn the pajamas,” Charles said miserably. “Now when we see each other, I – I can't even look at him. The first few times I did, I couldn't help it – but he pretended not to see me. God, he must feel weird and dirty about the whole thing, I wouldn't talk to me either.”

“Do you regret it?” Raven asked softly. He hadn't been expecting that. 

“I– of course not. No. It was the best night of my life.” Charles barked out a mirthless laugh. “God, I'm pathetic, aren't I.”

“Yes,” Raven said, and enfolded him in a bone crushing hug.

“Raven, your boobs, ow!”

“Sorry!” she said, rubbing his neck where a spangle had gotten snagged. She stared at him for a long time, then put her arm around his shoulders. “So you came tonight hoping for a kiss?”

“I don't know what I'm hoping for. I just want to see him. And maybe when I see him kissing cheerleaders I can forget and move on.”

“That seems like a hard night to forget,” Raven said carefully, “especially for him. You don't think it's possible that he's avoiding you for the same reasons you are?”

Charles scoffed. “I understand you're trying to make me feel better, but don't patronize me, Raven. He isn't gay. I know he isn't.”

“Maybe not. Maybe it's just you.”

“You've been reading too many romance novels.” 

“Only the ones you give me.” She didn't even flinch when the starting whistle sounded. “Just promise me something? Try not to get your heart any more broken, ok?”

Charles laughed. “I had rather hoped it wouldn't get broken in the first place.”

They sat through the remainder of the game in silence, Raven watching Charles, Charles watching Erik. He couldn't help it. He played magnificently. They won 20 to 0. 

The audience began filing out, but a large group of girls rushed onto the field, giggling madly, as the triumphant players jogged to greet them. Charles felt Raven stir at his side.

“Go ahead,” he said, smiling as honestly as he could. “One of us should have some fun tonight. I'll wait for you by the gate.”

She still hesitated. “Are you sure, Charles? I could ask him–“

“No,” Charles said sharply, then more gently, “No. Go get some. You deserve it.”

“Ok,” she said, still reluctant. “I'll meet you out front.” 

“Don't come back if your paint job isn't ruined.”

With that Raven flung her arms around Charles and jogged down to the field, launching herself into the goalie's arms and kissing him so hard he knocked over the girl behind him. Chuckling, Charles walked slowly down the bleachers, but instead of going to the gate, he paused near the entrance to the field.

The scene was organized pandemonium; there were far more girls than players, but some of them were drunk enough they had begun to snog each other, while the boys watched and hooted. Charles turned his eyes away, checking on Raven, and chuckled when he saw she had backed her goalie against the fence; he was looking a little desperate, but still mighty willing. Charles couldn't see Erik. He was probably on his back by now, under a pair of beautiful, blond women, getting himself kissed silly. He deserved it, at least. It was a small kind of happiness, but an important one.

Charles sighed and turned to go, hands deep in his pockets. He had seen enough. Hopefully Raven would go home with her new goalie friend, and Charles could retreat to his room and his porn without shame (never mind it took more to get off than it ever had before, now that he wouldn't let himself think about Erik and he realized for years all he had thought about _was_ Erik) and maybe try the phone sex line that Raven had slipped him. If he couldn't fall in love, at least he could indulge in that, and there was always his thesis to work on, for the coming winter–

Someone called his name and Charles turned around in disbelief, recognizing the voice, wondering why in the world he would be calling _him_ when six feet of German slammed into him and peddled him backwards and stole all the breath from his body.

For several long moments, Charles was spread comically across the wall, hands twitching at his sides and heart thumping in his ears. But then Erik – _this was Erik_ – groaned in frustration and grabbed his face in two long palms and shoved his knee up – and this was better than porn, MUCH better than porn, and Charles gasped something close to a sob into Erik's mouth and sunk his hands into the back of his neck so they could kiss each other silly.

It was hours, days, _years_ before they surfaced, gasping for breath. Charles put his forehead against Erik's collarbone, not trusting himself to look him in the eye just yet, his blood singing and every inch of him waiting to wake up once more to crusty covers and a lonely morning.

But there was a mouth behind his ear now, and he shivered as Erik – _Erik_ – lifted his eyes gently to his own.

Charles was sure he would faint on the spot. Because there was that smile again, with too many teeth and his lips pulled taut and what could Charles do but kiss him again.

“Hey, faggots!” someone yelled. Charles froze and moved to push Erik away, but he just left his mouth to suck on his neck. Charles looked over his shoulder and gasped, laughing, when he saw Raven clinging to a very bewildered goalie, looking like her face would split open. “Get a room, why don'cha?” she shouted, winking. For a moment, then, her face went very still, with a pride and happiness that burst Charles's heart – and then she was pulling the goalie back down and saying, “What? You wanna let Lensherr up-stage you? I think you have a bed with my name on it.”

Charles stopped paying attention at that point, because Erik was running his hands up his sides and Charles didn't think he could pay attention to anything ever again. 

“Erik,” he gasped, pushing uselessly at the strong chest (it was still wet with sweat from the game, he noticed, and nearly came then and there), “Erik, wait–“

And then he pulled away and there were those dangerous grey eyes and Charles nearly _did_ come when he said, half a growl and half a gasp, “I've wanted to do that for three years.”

“Why didn't you?” Charles asked; it came out far more accusingly than he meant it to. 

“I thought you were straight,” Erik said.

Charles gaped. “What? How could you think–“

“You were always with that blond girl, I assumed– but then when she was kissing Hank, and I saw you alone, I realized, I hoped– why are you laughing?”

For Charles had broken into the kind of gasping laughter that lands you in the psych ward, and he couldn't stop for the world.

“We're so dumb– we're so dumb, my god, we're at the smartest school in the country but we're so _stupid_ –“ and then Erik was kissing him again so he shut up.

“Now that our level of intellect is established,” he said, in a voice that made Charles's hair stand on end and his cock leap against Erik's thigh – and he felt it, the bastard, for his grin just kept growing – “You don't mind if I sleep with you tonight, do you?”

“Fuck no,” Charles squeaked, and clapped a hand to his mouth. Erik laughed, his throat stretching deliciously for Charles's gaze, but his body pressing impossibly closer against him.

“We'll wait until we can move again, then,” Erik said, chuckling still, before going suddenly quiet, the way only he could. He looked, for the first time that night, unsure. “You don't–“ He stopped and cleared his throat. “You don't know what you did for me. Really. I– I think I might have done something if you hadn't–“

“Me too,” Charles said, and it was much, much too soon, and the only thing he could do was smile and touch Erik's throat and gasp when Erik pulled his knuckles up to his mouth. “It's a good thing we didn't, then.”

“A very good thing. A perfect thing.” He pulled away jerkily, and only the reason why kept Charles from dragging him back against him.

“There,” Erik said, smiling his terrifying smile again, “I think I can hobble along. You?”

“If you can, I can,” Charles said giddily. His cheekbones would crack if he smiled any wider.

When Erik offered his hand, it nearly broke Charles in two – for he saw the Erik his mother must have loved, imp-faced and tousle-haired, eyes alight and smiling but secretly shy in a way that hid nothing because his back was straight and his hand was strong, and Charles slipped into him with a sigh.

Erik didn't wear Charles's clothing that night. Charles didn't either. 

**Author's Note:**

> In case anyone is confused, Erik and Charles are in the same year, although Erik entered at the standard age and is thus four years older (and is 20 or 21 at this point). At my school students who are advanced in a subject are allowed to TA as underclassmen, so although Erik TAs Charles's class, they were both sophomores at that point.
> 
> Also, a disclaimer: I go to neither Harvard nor Yale, and cannot endorse one over the other, or claim that any information I give about them is correct. I especially do not mean disrespect by associating Yale with Kurt Marko; I'm sure he failed out of sophomore year, and bought a fake diploma on the internet.


End file.
